


Secret Santa

by Eliyes



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Secret Santa, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:16:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliyes/pseuds/Eliyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I ask again: what were you doing?” Jean-Paul folded his arms, just noticing that Bobby was wearing a pajama set printed with what looked like dancing cartoon reindeer. Thankfully, they didn't clash with the grey of his slippers and housecoat. Jean-Paul, on the other hand, was wearing silk boxers and an open robe – not nearly enough layers to be dealing with Bobby, if he knew what was good for him.</p>
<p>Bobby <i>in his bed</i>, with almost everyone else asleep. He mentally pushed away an entire <i>list</i> of things he'd like to do...</p>
<p>Bobby, who sighed and rubbed carefully around the bruise on his face.</p>
<p>“I was slipping a Christmas card under your door,” he admitted. “Surprise! You beaned your secret Santa.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on Livejournal December 25, 2006.

 

Despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve, people were definitely stirring at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Jean-Paul Beaubier, for one, was sitting in bed with his laptop computer open, transcribing several pages of hand-written jot notes for a new manuscript. Half a bowl of grapes sat on the bed next to him, which he occasionally remembered. It was well past midnight, but since he didn't have to work the next day, he was taking advantage of the opportunity to stay up late and then sleep in.

Possibly he'd go to sleep _after_ Christmas breakfast, which would apparently involve “Jean's best pancakes”.

It came to his attention that he wasn't the only thing “stirring” when he heard footsteps shuffling down the hall. He flicked a glance at the clock, and noted that the steps sounded as though whoever was out there was trying to be quiet. Not terribly unusual this early in the morning; it wasn't polite to wake people up.

The steps stopped outside his door.

Jean-Paul was up and out of bed in a blink, laptop carefully settled on the comforter. He shrugged on a satiny robe, in case it was one of his students. They weren't supposed to come into the teacher's wing, but it had happened before when one of them was particularly upset. Perhaps the holiday had brought on a bad case of homesickness.

Unfortunately – and to Jean-Paul's surprise – opening his door produced the sound of wood connecting with someone's skull at about knee level, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. He pulled the door back in a few centimeters, then slowly pushed it open wide enough that he could stick his head out.

He was astonished to discover Bobby Drake sprawled in the hallway.

“...ow...” Bobby groaned.

Jean-Paul slipped out into the hall and helped Bobby to his feet, which involved quite a bit of wobbling, and Bobby latching onto Jean-Paul's robe for an anchor. The skin of his chest seemed to tingle where it came into contact with the brushing of Bobby's knuckles, but he was used to his reaction to the man by now and ignored it as best he could.

“Whoa,” Bobby said, putting an icy hand to a quickly rising lump on his forehead.

“I'm so sorry,” Jean-Paul said, holding him steady.

“Yeah. Ow. You pack a mean door, mister,” Bobby replied weakly. His voice was low and rough with sleep and pain. Swallowing thickly, Jean-Paul glanced up and down the corridor, but apparently they hadn't woken anyone. He gently tugged the flannel of Bobby's housecoat.

“Come in where there's better light so I can check you for concussion.”

Bobby started to protest, but Jean-Paul quickly shushed him. As though just realising the hour, Bobby conceded and allowed himself to be drawn into the room. Jean-Paul gently closed the door, and then seated Bobby on the side of the bed, pushing pillows out of the way to get him close enough to the lamp on his nightstand.

“What were you doing out there?” he asked as he tried to tilt the lamp to shine in Bobby's eyes. He had to grab his chin to keep him from flinching away. Bobby mumbled something, which Jean-Paul overrode with a sharp command to put his arm down and turn his head.

He wasn't sure if Bobby was concussed or not. Did he pupils contract too slow? Were they still more dilated than normal? Was the lamp bright enough?

“...I can't tell. Maybe we should wake McCoy.”

Bobby groaned.

“No, don't. He'll be up soon, anyway; he's on early-riser duty.”

“So, what – I should just let you go back to bed when you might have a serious head injury?” Jean-Paul snapped back, disquieted by the thought.

“You could kiss it better,” Bobby murmured.

Jean-Paul stared at him for a full minute.

“...You _must_ have a concussion,” he said at last, eliciting a chuckle from Bobby.

“Maybe.”

“I ask again: what were you doing?” Jean-Paul folded his arms, just noticing that Bobby was wearing a pajama set printed with what looked like dancing cartoon reindeer. Thankfully, they didn't clash with the grey of his slippers and housecoat. Jean-Paul, on the other hand, was wearing silk boxers and an open robe – not nearly enough layers to be dealing with Bobby, if he knew what was good for him.

Bobby _in his bed_ , with almost everyone else asleep. He mentally pushed away an entire _list_ of things he'd like to do...

Bobby, who sighed and rubbed carefully around the bruise on his face.

“I was slipping a Christmas card under your door,” he admitted. “Surprise! You beaned your secret Santa.”

Jean-Paul ran a hand over his face, embarrassed.

“Oh.”

“I think it got left in the hallway,” Bobby added. Jean-Paul went out to check, and sure enough, there was a rectangular red envelope on the floor with his name written on it in elegant cursive. He opened it as he returned to the bed, absently closing the door again. Bobby was moving across the bed, away from the lamp, pausing to move the bowl of grapes out of the way.

The front of the card had a print of Santa's sleigh flying over a row of houses. He deftly caught the folded slip of paper that fell out when he opened the card, and read what was written inside.

“You have lovely handwriting,” he commented. He glanced over to find Bobby drawing his legs up and smiling ruefully.

“Thank you, but I actually had the lady at the gift-wrapping kiosk in the mall write it so that my handwriting wouldn't give me away.”

Jean-Paul hadn't bothered to disguise his writing, and so made an approving why-didn't-I-think-of-that noise as he set the card on his nightstand and unfolded the paper. As he had suspected, it was a gift certificate – but he would not have guessed what it was _for_. A very reputable spa's name headed the paper, which stated that he, Jean-Paul Beaubier, was entitled to three full days of deluxe massage and spa treatment, and would receive a 50% discount should he decide to purchase a membership.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he looked at the bed again – only to catch Bobby reclining, propped on one elbow and trying to look at the back of Jean-Paul's computer. His heart might have jumped. Certainly other parts of his anatomy took notice of Bobby Drake sprawling across his bed, and he hastily tied his robe shut.

“Is this a Durabook(c)?”

“Yes. Bobby, this – ” he waved the gift certificate, looking for words as Bobby pushed himself back upright, frowning.

“You don't like it?”

“I do, actually – but surely this was expensive?”

Bobby shrugged.

“I couldn't think of anything else to get you,” he said. “Actually, at first I was completely stumped, but then I overheard you saying the only thing our exercise facilities are missing are some really good masseurs...”

Jean-Paul cast through his memory, trying to think of when he had said such a thing. Suddenly it came to him – but he'd made the comment to someone else; he didn't even remember Bobby being there.

“You never would have guessed it was from me,” Bobby said mournfully. Jean-Paul sighed and sat beside him, carefully arranging his robe.

“I'm sorry I ruined the surprise. It's a very nice gift; thank you.” When Bobby didn't look up immediately, Jean-Paul leaned down to try to meet his eyes. Bobby blinked at him, and Jean-Paul was again wishing he could tell for sure if those pupils were responding right. Granted, Bobby's face was in shadow, but they seemed to expand a little every time he looked at them.

Bobby gave him a slow smile.

“Apology and thanks accepted.”

For a moment they just sat and looked at each other. Finally, one of them blinked and the spell was broken.

“Well, I guess I should leave you to work on... whatever it is you're working on at this time of morning?” He glanced at the laptop and notebook.

Jean-Paul smiled at the broad hint.

“I'm trying my hand at fiction. Bobby – you probably shouldn't sleep until you get checked.” He watched as Bobby swung his legs over the side of the bed and paused, clearly a little dizzy.

“Like I said, Hank will be up soon to keep the kids from getting into the presents too early,” he said, attempting to stand. Jean-Paul stood and helped him up.

“May I keep you company until he is, then? After all, it _is_ my fault.”

The look Bobby gave him started out startled, but then transformed into something much more mischievous.

“Sure, but you'll have to help me deliver one more present.”

Jean-Paul agreed, which was how he came to be hovering high above the mansion as the faint glow of pre-dawn just began to the East. Bobby had insisted he dress warmly for this – a little too warmly, he was finding, but that might have something to do with the legs wrapped tightly around him. Bobby's legs, which he had a good hold on to keep him from falling – and Bobby's voice murmuring directions in his ear.

If you'd asked him what he expected to be doing Christmas morning, he would not have said “giving Bobby Drake a piggyback ride while he blankets the campus with snow”, but that was precisely what he was doing. He wished he had on a longer coat, because as soon as they landed, Bobby was probably going to spot the effect this was having on him unless he got some control over his body.

“Okay, we're done!” Bobby breathed in his ear. It didn't help.

He took them in for a slow landing, circling around to the kitchen door, the better to admire Bobby's handiwork. There hadn't been much snow yet this winter, so Bobby had decided to make _sure_ they'd have a white Christmas.

“Impressive,” Jean-Paul commented. “You realise this makes you _everyone's_ secret Santa, in a way?”

Bobby freed a hand to tweak one of Jean-Paul's ear tips.

“Does that make you my helper elf?” he teased, the breath of his laughter caressing Jean-Paul's suddenly flushed face.

“You know, I've actually done that, flying sleigh and all,” Jean-Paul said after a moment to compose himself. At Bobby's prompting, he started in on the story as they landed. Bobby was already trying to muffle laughter when they went inside, to discover Hank McCoy drowsily stirring a large mug of coffee.

A pang of disappointment made Jean-Paul falter, but Bobby waved him over to a chair with an amused look a the _obviously_ still half-asleep doctor, and he picked up the thread of narrative again. By the time he finished, even Hank was chuckling.

“Out playing Jack Frost?” he inquired, with a pointed look at Bobby, who grinned and brushed some snow off of his pajamas. He had argued against getting changed himself on the basis of not actually feeling the cold, only exchanging his slippers for boots. Hank winked at him and then turned towards Jean-Paul.

“Well, I know why he's up dark and early. How about you?”

They explained about the accident and Hank checked Bobby over, finally pronouncing him free of signs of concussion and probably in need of sleep.

“I suggest you two take yourselves to bed,” he said, pouring himself more coffee before bowing and heading off to the tree.

Bobby watched him go, then flashed a smile at Jean-Paul.

“Well, thank you for helping, even if you didn't need to keep me awake. It went a lot faster with your help.”

Jean-Paul winked.

“Speed is my specialty. Santa's helpers have to be fast to get everything done in one night, right?”

Bobby laughed, and they went to shuck their boots and hang up Jean-Paul's jacket. Since they were both heading to the same wing of the building, they went together, mostly keeping a comfortable quiet so they didn't wake anyone.

“Uh-oh,” Bobby said, stopping suddenly. He pointed to the door they needed to go through next. A sprig of mistletoe hung just in front of it. Jean-Paul blinked at it, sure it hadn't been there when they went outside.

“C'mon,” Bobby said, tugging him towards it.

“What?”

“It's bad luck _not_ to kiss.” He rolled his eyes. “Do we _need_ bad luck? No.”

For the second time that morning they stared at one another, until Jean-Paul gave himself a little shake. Bobby seemed serious, but he figured he meant a peck on the cheek. He bent down to deliver just that, but Bobby stopped him with a hand on his chin, then turned his head to kiss him properly.

At first it was just a soft brushing of lips, and Jean-Paul began to pull away - except Bobby followed, his hand sliding to the back of Jean-Paul's neck to press him in for a firmer kiss, his other hand coming to rest on Jean-Paul's hip.

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth - because if Bobby was going to put some effort into this, so was he - Jean-Paul slid an arm around Bobby and drew him closer. He knew damn well that he was a good kisser, and if this wasn't an opportunity to show that off, he didn't know what was. He parted his lips slightly and darted his tongue to lick at both their lips. Bobby responded in kind.

Jean-Paul got caught up in the interplay of lips and tongue and teeth, the feel of a hand skimming over his back and fingers digging into his hair, and the delicious warmth of their bodies pressing together. It was only when he felt Bobby's knee nudging between his that he realised Bobby was not just pressing against him, but pressing _him_ against the door. He had two fistfuls of Jean-Paul's sweater and was tugging insistently downward.

Jean-Paul parted his legs and shifted, sliding his back down the door and bracing himself. Bobby moved in immediately, pressing closer, almost straddling Jean-Paul's thigh. Now their heads were at the same level, and it was amazing the difference this made for the kissing. They were practically devouring each other, breathing the same air, almost in sync. Bobby's hands moved from Jean-Paul's sweater to the waistband of his jeans, fingertips sliding in and then tugging him closer. Jean-Paul responded by reaching down to cup his hands over Bobby's butt - which he'd been covertly admiring for some time now - and pulling him closer still.

Some small part of Jean-Paul realised that if anyone opened the door from the other side, there was no way they were staying vertical. Of course, getting horizontal right now didn't sound like a bad plan. There really wasn't enough room in his jeans anymore, and Bobby's pajamas did little to hide the fact that he was in the same state. They'd both started moving, rocking a little; if this went on much longer, he was going to end up riding Bobby's leg to a climax right here in the hallway, where anyone could see them.

It was less that thought than an increasingly urgent need for more oxygen that lead to Jean-Paul somehow summoning the will to pull his mouth away from Bobby's - although the moan of protest this caused nearly brought him back. For a moment they just panted, sucking in huge lung-fulls of air. Bobby was flushed, but he somehow managed to blush further when Jean-Paul met his eyes. He made an embarrassed noise that was half moan and half chuckle, leaning in to rest his forehead - carefully - against the door.

Jean-Paul lifted one hand to pet the back of Bobby's head. Slowly, they began easing apart, although more than once one of them would shiver as they brushed against one another to separate.

“...Unexpected,” Jean-Paul managed, finally. His lips felt raw; he was sure his tongue tingled. Bobby chuckled a little breathlessly.

“Uh, yeah. Santa doesn't usually...” He trailed off, and Jean-Paul waited for him to finish the sentence. When he didn't, he tried a joke.

“What? Kiss his elf?” He didn't get the expected laugh. Instead, Bobby drew back with an air of reluctance. His face was unusually sober, and he met Jean-Paul's eyes deliberately, which was the only reason Jean-Paul didn't fixate on his still-swollen mouth.

“I was going to say, Santa doesn't usually give me what I asked for this fast.”

Jean-Paul blinked.

“...Do you mean...?”

Bobby nodded.

“But I thought you were...?”

Bobby shook his head.

They stared at each other for a long moment as Jean-Paul let that sink in. Outwardly, Bobby seemed calm, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes - uncertainty, perhaps.

“Well,” Jean-Paul said at last. “I _did_ say speed was my _specialty_.” He raised an eyebrow, smiling a little, and was rewarded with a relieved grin.

“Is that so?” Bobby asked, arching an eyebrow of his own and leaning in again.

“Mm-hm.”

“But I would hope not in _every_ situation?” he teased.

“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

“Well, the doctor _did_ tell us to go to bed, singular.”

They grinned at each other.

“So, how fast can you get us to that bed?” Bobby challenged. Jean-Paul straightened, scooped him up, and showed him.

He took the mistletoe, too.


End file.
